


Glimpses

by avidbeader



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Complete, Drabble, Gen, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 22:46:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avidbeader/pseuds/avidbeader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bit more than a drabble, almost a ficlet. As Sherlock Holmes is off being dead and cleaning up messes, glimpses of long and dark ponytails make him start to think. Hints of potential Sherlock/Molly and vague spoilers for "The Empty Hearse". First foray into "Sherlock" territory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glimpses

**Disclaimer:** I don’t own “Sherlock”. Just poking things with sticks to see what happens. Vague spoilers for “The Empty Hearse”.

So, this would be my first attempt at fanfic in the “Sherlock” universe. It in no way shows my recent and thorough plunge into Sherlock/Molly , a ship that caught my fancy when I saw the very first series and only needed some helpful visuals from the s3 premiere to go full-throttle into OTP Land. But the muses are whispering and I hope I will have more to share over time.

And for anyone who might have been hoping this would be the next chapter of my “Harry Potter” fic, apologies and don’t worry. Consider this a palate-cleanser and I will keep plugging away at it.

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For a normal person, it might have taken a dozen instances or more to grasp the pattern.

Sherlock Holmes was not a normal person by any measure. The third time he spotted a dark ponytail just the right length bobbing ahead of him in a crowd and instinctively quickened his step, his heart beating just a little faster, he realized.

Molly Hooper was in his thoughts more than she should have been.

It was more than being grateful—not that Sherlock really considered it gratitude. Molly had been there from the first, since the time she surprised him in the morgue at Bart’s trying to get at a poisoning victim for a blood sample. Naturally, being a woman with an uncommonly kind disposition, she had agreed to help him with a bit of access. And of course she permitted him greater and greater freedoms over time until he spent an average of three days a week in her lab, his own fully-equipped station always kept ready for him. Even after John had entered the picture, it was Molly he had gone to for help in circumventing Moriarty’s trap.

Molly had been more than happy to help with that. It hadn’t occurred to Sherlock at the time, but she was still angry at being used by Moriarty to get to him.

She had listened as he outlined his plan and had made a couple of suggestions specific to when to bring the substitute and what kind of body type to look for. He had let her—it was her area of expertise and experience—and had masked his surprise at the soundness of her ideas.

He had debated visiting her one last time before leaving, but in the tumult of swapping places so John would see his “corpse”, the tidying up and then the ever-irritating fuss from Mycroft to get him on his way, he lost his chance.

And now he was in Kathmandu en route to India, thousands of miles away from her. Of course the girl with the auburn ponytail above the slim pale neck wasn’t her, standing out among the population with their dusky skin and black hair.

But he wanted it to be her. He wanted to talk to her, tell her about his task and see the slightly disbelieving smile she always wore when he explained his latest theories. She always heard him out. And he wanted to hear her voice.

He shouldn’t call now. With the nearly six-hour time difference it would be around four in the morning for her. He wouldn’t be able to call later as he would be in transit.

And perhaps a call wasn’t the best way to open communication again after so many months. Perhaps a text instead. He preferred it after all, and Molly knew that.

He stepped aside, moving into the shelter of a shop door, and pulled out his mobile.

_What was that quote that John gave? Right after he tried to point out that I shouldn’t need music in my life if I was going to be so bloody clinical?_

After a moment’s pause, he had it and began typing.

**Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art. It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.**

He chose not to sign it. Mycroft was likely to be quite tiresome when he found out Sherlock was breaking cover, even the tiniest bit.

She would know it was him. For the moment, it would have to do.

 

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**Author’s Note:** As always, thanks for reading!

The quote is from C.S. Lewis.


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